


Chopped

by gummycola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Chopped, Comedy, Light Swearing, M/M, USUK - Freeform, Unabashed appreciation for Ted Allen, pure silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 04:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12719766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummycola/pseuds/gummycola
Summary: Alfred and Arthur settle in for a very special episode of Chopped. Will Chef Francis wow the judges? Or will he...be chopped?





	Chopped

“It's him! Oh my god, Arthur, he's really there!”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. Of course he was really there. Francis had told them, months previous, of his little rendezvous on the popular cooking show “Chopped.” Apparently, Alfred needed the visual proof to comprehend this.

 

“Holy hell, look! He's cooking!”

 

Arthur sighed and twisted open the cap of a bottled beer, settling himself into the cushion and frowning at the sound of Francis' smug voice.

 

“I am the executive chef and owner of The Blushing Frenchman in New York City.”

 

That name. It always made Alfred laugh and Arthur groan. As if Francis had ever blushed in his life.

 

The rather dashing host of the show went on the introduce the episodes other “fierce” competitors. None of them looked particularly fierce to Arthur. One of them operated a bloody food truck.

 

Alfred had calmed down a little and was stuffing his face with the foul-smelling burrito he had microwaved earlier. Oh, the irony. It would be amusing, if Arthur's stomach weren't so empty.

 

The commercial break ended, and there stood Francis, proud and sweating and _definitely_ wearing make-up. The host commanded them to open their baskets, and open them they did, revealing some sort of shellfish, peanut butter, a jar of egg whites and...

 

“Is that what I think it is?!” Alfred shouted, spewing bits of burrito all over the ottoman.

 

“For Christ's sake, Alfred!”

 

“Artie, look! Oh my god, look at his face! He's pissed!”

 

Arthur ignored the bits of meat and tortilla splattered onto his furniture for a brief moment and turned to the television.

 

There, on the screen, which Alfred had paused, was an infuriated Frenchman glaring at a hamburger. Alfred excitedly hit play again, leaning forward and stuffing the rest of his burrito into his mouth.

 

“That's right folks, it's the All-American challenge. Each basket will contain a piece of quintessential American food. You must somehow incorporate that food, or its pieces, into your dish.”

 

Arthur smiled. The look on Francis' face was _delicious_. He had recovered, but every time he glanced down at the offending burger, his face darkened again.

 

“How in hell is a hamburger an ingredient, dude? That's a dish. That's a meal!”

 

Arthur hummed in response, fixated on the chefs. They were slicing, rolling, sautéing, all of them in the rhythm of it, even Francis, who had toasted the hamburger buns and had crumbled the beef into his sauce.

 

Alfred sniffed.

 

“It's rough, seeing a good piece of food treated like that.”

 

Arthur would have scoffed, but Alfred was probably serious. He ruffled the American's hair affectionately.

 

The round had ended, and Alfred was fast forwarding through the commercials when Arthur stood.

 

“Where ya goin' babe?”

 

“I was thinking I would just go whip us up some grub, I can see the telly from the kitchen after all.”

 

He missed the look of horror on Alfred's face, but felt the hand that grabbed his elbow.

 

“Artie, you can't miss this! You said you'd watch with me!”

 

Arthur sighed. He had promised to watch the program with him. Well, he could always cook afterward, he supposed, and he allowed Alfred to happily pull him back onto the couch.

 

An ad for some sort of dreadful prepackaged pasta ended and that fit host filled the screen.

 

“Let's hear what the judges have to say about your dishes.”

 

One by one, the chefs made their offerings to the wooden alter. Francis was last, bowing as the judges took their first bite. The blonde chef that Alfred found so alluring spoke up first.

 

“Your use of the peanut butter in this sauce was really...quite smart. But, I seem to be missing the hamburger here.”

 

The second judge, a man Arthur didn't recognize, chimed in.

 

“Yeah, I gotta say, this is a really yummy dish, but I agree, definitely not getting any of that burger.”

 

Finally, a disdainful looking woman set down her fork and locked eyes with Francis.

 

“While I appreciate your use of the pantry and find your treatment of the bun to be really satisfying, I'm disappointed at the lack of...oomph in this dish.”

 

Arthur laughed.

 

“His dish lacks oomph? What in blo--”

 

He was stopped by Alfred's hand, which flew to his chest and rested there.

 

“Artie.” He whispered.

 

“Wh—what is it?”

 

“I think Francis is gonna get chopped.”

 

Dramatic music played. The camera panned. The handsome host cast his solemn gaze upon the quivering culinary masterminds.

 

It cut to commercials, and Alfred shrieked.

 

“Call him!”

 

Arthur paused, leaning forward with the intention of wiping up the mess Alfred had made.

 

“Call who, darling?”

 

“Francis! Call 'im! Gotta know if he gets Chopped, I can't wait!”

 

Arthur snorted, collecting bits of spat out food in a tissue and heading toward the kitchen. His eyes fell longingly on the cooking utensils.

 

“Just a tick, love, all will be revealed.” Maybe he'd try his hand at pasta again. Sure, last time it had made his guest cry and curse heaven and all creation, but really, Arthur thought it wasn't half bad.

 

“Get your butt in here before ya miss something! And could you bring me a beer?”

 

One butt and one beer later, Alfred was practically vibrating off of the couch, glaring at an ad for asthma medication.

 

It mercifully gave way to the Chopped kitchen, where Francis and three other chefs awaited their fate.

 

“He really is a looker, that host, isn't he?” Arthur murmured absentmindedly. Alfred was too excited to hear, which was, really, for the best.

 

The host's hand gripped the handle of the iconic silver cover. He pulled, and beneath it... 

was Francis' dish.

 

For a moment, the small, messy living room of Arthur's flat was perfectly silent.

 

And then its occupants erupted into laughter.

 

“Oh—oh hell, no wonder he wouldn't talk about it! And he wouldn't come over for my cookouts, either!”

 

It was rich, it was just too rich.

 

“That haughty bastard, defeated by American cuisine. Your food is good for something, it seems.”

 

Alfred attempted to stop laughing and glare, but chuckles still escaped.

 

“You're mean. Ah, hey, I'm gonna call him, let's call him.”

 

Alfred pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, and Francis answered with a yell.

 

“Listen to me, vous bâtard américain! I will hear nothing of silly TV programs! Now, I will hang up, and go to work, because I am in New York, you insensitive prick, for a huge event at my five star restaurant, and no, I do not want to speak to your filthy English beau!”

 

The click was final, and once again, Alfred and Arthur were quiet, studying the little screen of light in Alfred's hand.

 

Then Arthur's stomach growled, and they fell apart again.

 

“Okay, okay, we should go celebrate! Let's go! What do you want to eat?” Alfred had pulled him into an embrace and was lying beneath him, a toothy smile illuminating his face.

 

Arthur forgot about cooking anything.

 

“You know, love, I think I could go for a hamburger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic is old. Why am I so mean to Francis? I need to give myself the challenge of writing a story where Francis gets all the good treatment.


End file.
